Is this how Adrian feels about Elise?
I consider some of the times I’ve tortured him with her—not to further an agenda or make a point, but occasionally just to amuse myself. I am a miserable bastard.
Attempting to clear away the crazy alternate life I’m dreaming up, I give my head a faint shake. “Never mind. Yes, I had a puppy once. I was 10. My father surprised me with a Jack Russell terrier.”
Even though she just told me she’s not a dog person, she gets all soft at the thought of a puppy. “Aw. What did you name him?”
“Felix.” I haven’t thought about that dog in years. The last time was when Beth died—the last time I needed a reminder of the lesson I’d been taught then. I didn’t think I was fool enough to repeat the same mistake twice, but as much as I want to, I can’t deny the stirring of feelings I haven’t experienced in years.
Bad feelings. Dangerous feelings. The kind that cost much more in the long run than they’re worth. I’m allowed to keep Mia, but I’m definitely not allowed to fall in love with her. I don’t have the emotional budget to go through something like that again.
Blissfully ignorant of the mental tailspin I’m experiencing, Mia casually remarks, “I like that name.”
“I actually loved that dog.” Her gaze rises to mine, perhaps confused by the unexpected hardness of my tone. I say it like a failing—I hear that, once it’s out.
With a gentle smile, she runs a hand down my chest and assures me, “Your 10-year-old self loving your dog doesn’t lose you any badass points, don’t worry.”
I roll my eyes at the idea of her thinking I was worried about that. I could give a fuck less what level of badass anyone thinks I am. As long as they’re smart enough to fear what I’ll do to them and they stay out of my path, their opinion of me is irrelevant. If they don’t fear me enough to stay out of my way, I’ll show them what a mistake that was.
Either way, I win and they don’t matter.
“I’m trying to envision you as a child, playing fetch with a dog,” she tells me. “I actually can’t envision either of those things. I think I’m going to need to see some proof. Tomorrow you should break out the family photo album and show me that young Mateo existed.”
“We never played fetch,” I say, a bit shortly.
Her gaze darts to mine. She’s confused by the shift in my attitude, but I don’t explain. Now she’s said family photo and I’m remembering the last time I was this fucking stupid. I’m remembering the stupid-ass, godforsaken family Christmas photo that existed once. Our first—and only—formal family photo after Isabella was born. Beth wasn’t happy, but she didn’t hate me yet. One day she came home from shopping with a big-ass grin on her face and a bag full of horrifying green sweaters. She got one for me, one for her, and she found one small enough for Isabella. For obvious reasons, we didn’t do “family photos” in my house growing up. I never liked having my picture taken to begin with, but Beth was so damn excited about it, I couldn’t tell her how stupid I thought it was. I let her book a photographer and set up a Christmas scene. I watched her doll Isabella up with her little green sweater and a headband that covered half her small head, and I sat there for the dumbest thing I’ve ever participated in.
It made Beth happy, so it didn’t matter if it was dumb.
Only the happiness didn’t last, because it never lasts.
Mia in my arms felt nice only a few moments ago, but now I feel like I’m holding a hot poker. I ease my arm out from under her and pull back. I sit up on the edge of the bed for a second to get my bearings, then I stand and go to retrieve my clothing so I can get dressed.
Completely lost, Mia asks, “Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head without looking at her. She’s getting too close and I need a little space. I need to go downstairs to my study for a breather.
“I thought you were staying in here today. How come you’re getting dressed?”
“I only took the morning off,” I lie. “It’s time to get back to work now.”
She frowns at me as I pull my clothing on, but she doesn’t argue. She sits on my bed, not even shy now—she doesn’t try to cover herself with blankets or arms.
Finally, she asks softly, “How come you never played fetch with your dog?”
I meet her gaze, mine carefully blank. “Because I only had him for four days. Just long enough for me to grow attached. Then my father killed him in front of me.”